


The Tide Will Pull You Out

by missmichellebelle



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, M/M, Mermaid Ian, Mermaids, Organized Crime, Romance, Supernatural Elements, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-22 04:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3714607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey feels like a dumbass as he types the word "mermaid" into Google search, but he's out of fucking options here. He doesn't know <i>shit</i> about mermaids, but, as it turns out, neither does anybody else.</p><p>Looks like he's going into this entire thing blind—which would be a lot less terrifying if he even knew what <i>this thing</i> was.</p><p>
  <b>THIS WORK IS UNFINISHED. IT HAS BEEN DISCONTINUED.</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> finally, finally, finally! I am taking one of my tropetember fics and turning it into a legit, full-length, chaptered wip. only like six months later, right? lololol (sorry)
> 
> I decided that the fic needed to be rewritten completely, but will still include many elements from the original fic [Fractured Moonlight](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2288630). you'll just see a lot less time jumps, a lot more of Mickey's life not just in that room where Ian's tank is. so hopefully you guys enjoy this whole journey as much as I hope I do.
> 
> tags (and possibly rating, idk) will change as the fic progresses. but don't worry (or do?), I have no intentions of writing any sort of human/mermaid sex.
> 
> (I hate the summary, so don't be surprised if it changes later when I'm not so anxious to get the first part of this posted).
> 
> also come and [talk to me on tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com), and be my friend, and ask me questions and things. ouo

In all his life, Ian has never known a sound more horrible than this one. It reminds him of the way the sky booms, when the surface becomes tumultuous and the sun disappears to let the water fall. On those rare occasions that Ian had lifted his head above the safety of the waves, he had seen the sky above split with cracks of brilliant, violent light, and then there was the _sound_. Loud and awful and terrible, and enough to send Ian back down to the depths every time.

But this sound is so much worse. Like the sky booms are right above him, close enough to touch, even as he stays away from the surface. The water churns unnaturally around him, cutting currents that keep him from swimming anywhere but forward.

So he swims, as fast as he can with his sister struggling and shaking with fear beside him. She grips on tightly to his wrist, and even though it slows them down, he doesn’t try to loosen her hold. He might not be shaking, but that doesn’t mean he’s not afraid.

There’s something in front of them, and Ian slows even as the Sound keeps crowding closer and closer from every direction. He doesn’t know what it is. It’s hardly visible, and unlike anything he has ever seen before.

“ _Ian_ ,” his sister cries urgently, letting go of him to keep swimming as fast as she possibly can. She’s still young, her fins just starting to develop into the majesty they one day will be, and therefore doesn’t yet have the strength to swim fast for very long.

She doesn’t see it, he realizes, but it’s too late. She crashes into the strange substance, and it immediately comes falling down around her, pinning her to the sea floor. She screams, cries out, and claws at the material as Ian goes for her, trying to pull it off. It sticks and snags to their skin and their tails, catching and tangling their fins to the point of pain.

It’s heavy, so heavy that it takes Ian’s entire body to lift it off his sister, and she whimpers in pain as she wiggles to free herself. It doesn’t let go, and Ian pulls at it, tugs at the snags until they release her and grip onto him instead.

She’s just free when the monster begins to move, upsetting Ian’s balance and throwing him against the pinching surface. And then Ian sees the ocean floor start to fall away.

“Ian!” His sister cries again, reaching for him, and he shoos her off.

“Don’t touch it, or it will take you, too,” he warns, trying to keep his voice calm even as panic wells in his chest.

“I have to get you out!” She insists, and Ian swivels his head around as much as he can, trying to look for help, but the ocean is empty around them. The Sound had driven off any and all creatures, and that’s when Ian notices that it’s stopped. The Sound no longer chases them, and he knows his sister can get away.

“Go!” He tells her, and her eyes widen in shock. “I’ll be okay, I’ll get out,” he promises, the lies aching as they leave his mouth. “But you have to warn the others. Keep them safe.”

“But—“

“Go! Before it starts again! Go now!”

And, reluctantly, she does, her speed hindered by the way she’s bleeding, but Ian knows she’ll get away. The monster has him. It has no reason to go after her.

When he breaks the surface, he feels for a second like he’ll never breathe again, until his gills seal and the scratchy, dry air of Above floods in through his mouth. The sun is bright and blinding and _hot_ , already painfully pulling the water from his skin. There’s loud noise, jumbled sounds he can’t make out or understand, and colored flashes of movement that make him dizzy.

So Ian stares down at the ocean, stares until it disappears and the music of it is swallowed up by the Sound. He wonders if he’ll ever see it again.


	2. Capsized

Mickey wakes up to the sounds of running water and creaking pipes. When he squints his eyes open, it’s to the pale morning light slanting in through shitty, ineffective blinds, and an empty space denoted by creased sheets that are still a little warm when he brushes his fingers against them. It’s early as fuck, but he knows that if the shower is running, he needs to get his ass up and ready for work.

But he doesn’t. By the time Cory emerges from the bathroom, hair dry and styled and a pair of grey slacks resting on his hips, Mickey hasn’t moved an inch. He hears Cory huff out a breath before his footsteps move closer.

“Bathroom’s free.” He’s suddenly grabbing Mickey by the ankle, using his hold to jiggle Mickey’s leg a few times. “No more excuses to keep sleeping.” Mickey shakes off his hold and growls in annoyance.

“‘M awake,” he mumbles, more into his pillow than not, and Cory laughs softly in response. Mickey’s been awake since he heard the shower turn on, and not because he’s some gross sap who wakes up just because his boyfriend isn’t beside him anymore—their pipes are really just that fucking loud. He just chose to stay in bed, is all.

When he picks his face out of the pillow, Cory has moved onto the closet and is pulling a dress shirt from his side. He holds it up against his chest, tips his head, wrinkles his nose, and then puts it back before selecting another. He must sense Mickey’s eyes on him, though, because he looks over suddenly and smiles.

Mickey didn’t meet Cory the way he’s met most of the men who’ve been in his life—that is to say, not at some dive bar or seedy club, or anywhere people just coming into their sexuality look for hook-ups. Because that’s all Mickey really did before Cory. Blow jobs in bathrooms, hooking up in alleyways, and drunken one-night stands that Mickey skillfully got away from before the other party before they came to. 

Cory wasn’t any of those things. Cory was the stranger who happened to be standing nearby one day when Mickey took his lunch. It was at this shitty little bodega on the corner by his office that he frequented, and Cory had meandered over while he was waiting for his food and started yammering away. Mickey’s still not sure how it ended in coffee rather than Mickey decking him in the face for being so annoying, but it did.

So they did the whole… Dating thing, which was weird for Mickey. Different. Probably because it wasn’t something he’d ever really done before. He wasn’t exactly in the closet anymore, but it’s not like he made a point of telling people. Or dating guys. Or even being seen with a dude outside of specific, previously determined locations.

(Sue him, he was new at this whole “being out” thing, all right?)

Dating Cory—fuck, being his _boyfriend_ —was a whole new world to Mickey. One he’d never even considered venturing into (one who’s possibility had seemed so far out of his reality that he hadn’t even dreamed of it). He hadn’t had a fucking clue about what he was doing—still doesn’t, if he’s being honest with himself.

It’s a real good thing Cory’s so damn patient.

“I’ll throw some Eggos in the toaster on my way out,” Cory says as he knots his tie. “You have until they’re done to shower and put on underwear— _clean_ underwear,” he quickly corrects himself, shooting Mickey a suspicious glare. He pulls his tie taught and then swoops down, pecking Mickey “good morning” and “goodbye” on the lips simultaneously. When he pulls back, he wrinkles his nose and adds, “And brush your teeth.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey retorts with a grin, and pushes Cory’s face away. He’s tempted to pull him back into bed and dishevel his carefully styled blond hair, maybe put a few wrinkles into his sharply pressed shirt. But he doesn’t. He knows from personal experience that Cory can be a real bitch about his hair, and his shirts, and basically anything related to his appearance. It’s too early to pick a fight. “When’d you get so bossy?”

“Always been this way, dear.” He stands up, adjusting his tie as if bending down to kiss Mickey had somehow mussed it. “Besides, if someone didn’t boss your lazy ass around, then where would you be?”

“Asleep.”

“Unemployed,” Cory counters, and Mickey flips him off.

“Speaking of employment, don’ you have some paralegaling to do?”

Cory rolls his eyes, but then glances at his watch and starts to move away.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going. But get up,” he says sternly. Mickey flaps his hand in acquiescence, and Cory seems pleased enough with that.

“All right, see you tonight.” Cory turns towards the bedroom door, pausing just as his hand closes around the doorknob. “Oh, and I’m bringing home Thai for dinner—don’t make that face, it’s delicious.”

Cory can’t even _see_ his face, but he’s not wrong. Mickey has his nose skewed up in disgust. He fucking hates Thai food.

“Love you, bye!” And the bedroom door snaps closed before Mickey has the opportunity to answer. He yawns, staring at the door for a few more moments before he finally rolls over and heaves himself up. Time to stop dicking around and start his day.

*

Their apartment is in the shittier part of downtown Chicago, but it’s still not as shitty as Canaryville, so for Mickey it might as well be in the Gold Coast. Sure, they could probably afford to live somewhere nicer—that is, Cory could afford it, if he footed the majority of the rent. Like hell is Mickey going to let him do that, though. They live at the level where Mickey can afford his half of the rent, which is above the fucking poverty line which is all Mickey cares about.

Not Cory, though. Mickey knows that Cory wants more. He tries to subtly slip it into conversation every few weeks, like maybe Mickey has changed his mind (he hasn’t). Cory grew up in the North Side. He’s more accustomed to the cushier way of life, and the police sirens at 2am or the domestic disputes down the hall are not things he’s at all familiar with. To Mickey, they’re like a subdued version of home. Thankfully, Cory hasn’t pushed Mickey to the point of an all-out argument over the situation.

Yet.

Mickey’s job is only a few train stops away, in one of the trashier office parks. It’s not anything fancy, because all of Mickey’s credibility can be summed up into his GED, but it’s a job and it pays an actual salary rather than hourly. It’s boring as shit work, selling magazine subscriptions to doctor’s offices and law firms and basically any type of place that has a waiting room, but it’s not like Mickey expected excitement from a job that involves sitting in a cubicle for eight hours.

It’s not his fucking life’s passion or anything, but Mickey’s pretty sure he never had one of those anyway.

At the very least, Mickey is good at what he does. Turns out selling magazines follows the same basic business model as dealing drugs, and Mickey has a lot of fucking experience in that particular field. Except in this case, he has to be charming rather than threatening, and it turns out that despite how much Mickey fucking loathes other people, people seem to like him. Especially the middle-aged ladies he spends most of his time on the phone with.

Ann Harvey Magazine Subscription Services is on the third floor of a six story building, and the elevator is always crammed to capacity. Mickey is shoulder to shoulder with office rats dressed in business casual and smelling cloyingly of too much perfume or cologne or aftershave or _something_. Jesus, don’t these people have _noses?_

Mickey’s commute is his least favorite part of his day—he fucking hates the feeling of being crammed into a small space, close enough to another person that he can practically feel them breathing on him. It makes him feel cagey, like he might crawl out of his skin at any second.

“Think Nathan will be in today?” The blond girl with her shoulder in his chest asks a woman next to her. Her voice is hopeful and low, almost whispering, but in a space that small and that quiet, everyone can hear her, anyway. The air in the elevator suddenly feels thick with tension, every body still—even Mickey’s.

The second woman glances around uneasily and shushes her, and Mickey couldn’t be more thankful when the doors slide open on the first floor and he can escape the tight space and the heavy silence.

Nathan is the office mail guy. He’s worked there… Well, for a long ass time, because he was there when Mickey. He’s one of those staples, like the morning security guard or Laura the building manager. And Mickey had never really thought much of the guy. He delivered the mail. Sometimes he made small talk about sports or video games. Sometimes he would flirt with a few of the girls. He was just some _guy_ , for fuck’s sake.

Until he disappeared. If that’s what happened. A week and a half ago, Nathan just stopped showing up to work. No calls, no emails, zip. And when he didn’t answer any of Laura’s calls, she declared that he’d walked out on his position. End of story.

(And Mickey hates the fucking office gossip mill, that he knows even this much without even trying).

But everyone knows that’s not what really happened. Not that any of them will talk about what actually _did_. The office might be full of a lot of gossips, but no one is stupid enough to do that.

Mickey heaves out a sigh as he settles into his cubicle, booting up his computer and tapping his finger against the grain of the desk. He keeps thinking about Nathan for some fucking reason, and he presses his lips together in annoyance. What-the-fuck-ever. It’s not his business or his problem.

He debates getting a cup of coffee before he starts for the day, but no doubt the break room is already swarmed with every Chatty Cathy in the joint, and Mickey would rather walk headfirst into a nest of harpies than brave that shit storm. He leans back in his desk chair, cracks his knuckles, and decides to wait an hour for his coffee. By then, it should be safe.

Pulling up his email, he skims for anything important and then opens his client list for the day. He glances over it without interest as he fumbles around for his headset, and lets out a small sigh as he settles it over his ears. He hates the fucking thing, but it’s easier and faster than trying to hold a phone with his shoulder.

And then he’s starting. He sits up a little straighter, adopts the fake smile he has to wear to pull off this charming salesman routine, and waits for the click on the other side of the line.

“Hello, am I speaking with a Mrs. Whitaker? Good. This is Mickey Milkovich over at Ann Harvey, and I was just wondering if I could have a few minutes of your time today?”

*

The bodega on the corner where Mickey and Cory met closed months ago (health violations or some shit), and was replaced by a well-meaning food truck that sells mediocre, over-priced sandwiches. They make up the bulk of Mickey’s lunches these days, mostly because Mickey doesn’t care to bring his own or to find someplace new during his measly half hour mandated lunch break. But at least it’s a reason to leave the office and stretch his legs. His trip to and from the food truck is really the only time he’s way from his desk—even when he gets back, he settles back down in his cubicle with his brown bag in hand (today’s sandwich is tuna) rather than be forced to socialize with his coworkers elsewhere.

He has a mouthful of what is definitely generic, canned tuna when he hears ruckus in one of the neighboring cubicles. “I swear I brought my phone charger with me, it must be in here somewhere,” one of the girls he works with says. Mickey might know her name if he saw her (maybe), but at the moment she’s just some disembodied voice disrupting his lunch.

“You know you can just borrow mine, right?” A second girl answers, and Mickey glares at his sandwich as he takes a second bite. For a few wonderful moments, it’s silent aside from one of them rummaging around for stuff, when the second voice asks, “Did you hear Nathan is still missing?”

Mickey almost picks up his food and leaves. Nathan _again?_ For fuck’s sake, he avoids the break room for this very reason.

“I know,” the original voice gasps. “You know Mindy from that insurance place on the fifth floor? I heard they were seeing each other. Got pretty serious.” Her voice dips compassionately, and then lowers even more. Mickey annoyingly finds himself straining to hear what she says next. “She went by his place over the weekend—she got worried. He wasn’t answering her calls or texts or anything. And you know what she found?”

Mickey almost shouts _what_ when the woman waits a few moments for dramatic effect.

“Nothing,” she finishes.

“Nothing?” The second voice asks, flatly.

“Yep. The entire place was _gutted_. Like he’d never been there in the first place.”

Mickey’s skin feels cold, and that same thick hair that was in the elevator earlier is back in his cubicle.

“No shit?” The second one gasps. “What’s she going to do? Did she call the police?”

“Are you crazy? Like the police can do anything. Fat lotta good law enforcement is against Be—“ the first voice quickly cuts off, and Mickey’s hair feels like it’s on end. The silence stretches on for two minutes, at least, before the topic switches abruptly to someone’s new haircut and Mickey tunes out.

He swallows nothing, staring at his half eaten sandwich, and hopes he can go the rest of the fucking day without hearing about Nathan the mail guy.

*

Mickey’s in a bad mood by the time the day ends. He didn’t meet his sale’s quota, some bitch was giving him attitude about some home and garden magazine, and now he has to get shoved into an elevator with other grumpy, sweaty people. By the time he makes it to the train, his mood has only soured, his only saving grace that no one has breathed another word about Nathan since lunch.

Then, of course, his train is late, and Mickey will never understand how train traffic even fucking occurs. It means that when he finally does board, it’s with approximately twice as many people as usual, and Mickey is being rubbed up on and pushed against so many strangers it’s nothing short of a miracle that he hasn’t gone completely homicidal yet.

By the time he’s shoving his key into his apartment door, it’s an hour later than he’d usually be home and he’s seriously considering taking a bat down to the corner and beating up some drug dealers just to get the aggression out.

Cory is already home, bopping around he kitchen and humming as he he lays out a spread of takeout containers across their counter. The apartment smells thickly of Asian cuisine and all Mickey can think about is how badly he wants a fucking pizza.

“Oh, you’re home, did—“ Cory’s words dry up as soon as he looks at Mickey, reading his mood immediately. Which isn’t surprising, considering that Mickey’s “leave me the fuck alone” mood is practically tangible at this point. Cory purses his lips and stops fussing with the food, and thankfully doesn’t comment on Mickey’s lateness.

“Why don’t you get changed and I’ll make us some plates?” Cory’s voice has gone all soft and soothing, like he’s trying to console a fussy child. “We can eat on the couch and watch Criminal Minds, if you want.” What Mickey wants is to go shoot out a storefront with a shotgun and then maybe beat the shit out of someone, but looking at Cory, he has to remind himself that he’s not that person anymore.

Even if he really fucking wants to be, especially at times like these.

He doesn’t say anything, just turns away and heads for the bedroom, submitting to the idea of an evening full of Thai food and crime shows and _not_ bashing anyone’s skull in.

Cory’s fingers brush Mickey’s arm as he walks by, and he adds, “I’ll make some tea.” Mickey doesn’t want any fucking tea—doesn’t like it—but tea is Cory’s answer to everything wrong in the world. But if Mickey opens his mouth, he’s going to start yelling, and as good as it would feel, it’s not worth the week of Cory moping around like some kicked puppy.

So Mickey grunts and does his best not to slam the bedroom door behind him.

(He fails).

It’s days like this that make Mickey wonder if he’s made all the wrong choices in his life. If he should have stayed in the South Side. If that’s where he really belonged. Not here, with a normal job, and a normal boyfriend, and a perfectly normal life. Milkoviches don’t _do_ normal, and yet here Mickey is, trying his damnedest to play the fucking part.

Sometimes he’s not even sure if he likes _having_ a boyfriend. If he wouldn’t rather go home to an empty apartment after a day of pretending that he enjoys talking to people. Where he could order a pizza and watch cartoons and not give a fuck about any of it.

When he plops moodily onto the couch, Cory is pushing a mug of tea into his hands and setting a plate piled with Thai food on his lap, and Mickey longs for that single life he sometimes imagines. Or, at least, the personal space and the option to eat food he actually likes. He sits there, drink he hates and food he hates before him, and thinks, _This is my fucking life now_.

But then Cory is cuddling close to his side, almost hesitantly, and careful drapes an arm over Mickey’s shoulders and behind his neck. Mickey relaxes into the touch, almost craves for the way Cory infinitesimally tugs Mickey closer, and maybe coming home to someone isn’t _so_ bad.

*

The next morning starts like nearly every other morning in Mickey’s routine life—to the sound of creaking pipes and the still-warm emptiness beside him in bed.

But there’s a throbbing behind his left eye, a reminder of how restlessly he slept the night before, and he shoves his face into the cool darkness of his pillow and lets sleep undertake him again. He only really wakes up what feels like five minutes later, when there’s a sharp squeeze to his ankle that makes him kick out angrily. Once upon a time, being touched while he was sleeping would have jolted him to complete and total awareness, his body registering danger at its most vulnerable, but now he knows it’s Cory.

It’s always Cory.

There’s the sound of footsteps, and then the click of the bedroom door, and not long after Mickey can even hear the heavy bolt lock on the front door slide home. And that’s it. No good morning, or good bye. No kiss. No early morning banter—no fucking words spoken at all.

It frankly pisses Mickey the fuck off, way more than it probably should. But _fuck_ Cory’s passive aggressive shit. How many years have they been doing this thing and he still fucking punishes Mickey in this quiet, annoying way? Mickey doesn’t even have the drive to try and figure out _what_ it was this time, and seriously considers going back to sleep and not going to work, but that’ll just make this whole mess with Cory _worse_. He’ll do his whole gentle disapproval thing, and that is the last fucking thing Mickey wants to deal with right now.

Fuck, Mickey comes home from work pissed, and suddenly it’s a fucking crime.

He scowls as he shoves the comforter from his body, and drags himself into the hottest shower he can physically stand.

*

He’s half an hour late to work that morning. It’s probably because he let himself sleep in more than usual, or because he took his fucking time getting ready for work. He can easily blame it on the train if anyone even noticed, but chances are they haven’t.

If anything, he’ll have to stay a little later at work, which is fucking fine by him at this point. The later he leaves, the later he’ll get home and have to deal with Cory’s silent treatment and heavy sighing and pointedly leaving at least three feet between them at all times, which lasts basically until Mickey apologizes.

Sometimes Mickey wonders if this has to do with the three semesters in college that Cory was a fucking psych major. Like he thinks all this bullshit will make Mickey act differently.

By the time Mickey does get to work, the lobby of the building is empty, and, thankfully, so are the elevators. It’s hard for Mickey to acknowledge, but he was dreading the possibility of anyone mentioning Nathan. It’s not like he gives a shit about the guy or anything, but his disappearance draws unease to the surface of Mickey’s skin. It reminds him of the guy he used to be, the guy he could be, if he hadn’t decided to walk the straight and narrow.

Well, got scared into it is more like it.

Mickey rests his head against the reflective surface of the elevator walls and doesn’t think about how many years it’s been since his pops disappeared.

*

The office is quiet that day, and, quite like Mickey expected, no one notices the way he slips in late. It actually makes Mickey consider being late _every_ day—he’d get to sleep in, would miss the morning crowds on the train _and_ the crowded elevators—but knowing his fucking luck, someone would notice sooner rather than later. The last thing Mickey needs right now is to lose a job he fucking lucked into in the first place.

It’s not a job he’s fond of, but for once the monotonous routine of calling people and staring at Microsoft Excel is a welcome boredom. The work drags, just like it does every day, but when Mickey is in no hurry to leave he can’t even be pissed and impatient about it.

It lets his mind wander, though. To Cory and the inevitable fight they’ll probably have, if not tonight, sometime in the next few days. It wanders to Mandy and how long it’s been since he’s seen her, or called her, and how he keeps putting it off because he’s not sure if he wants to know how she’s doing—does he want her to be better off than him, or worse? It’s a question that makes him feel like a piece of shit, so he just keeps putting it off.

He thinks of Nathan, and he thinks of his dad. He thinks of the great and terrifying Terry Milkovich, that loomed over the South Side like a drunken, dangerous shadow. Growing up, Mickey had never believed in things like the boogeyman, because how could there be anything in the world more terrifying than his own father?

And then suddenly, there was. Out of the dark underbelly of Chicago had crawled some darkness, and Mickey had been old enough at the time to know what people said about it. To hear the way people warned Terry, told him to back down, told him to change. As if Terry Milkovich would ever change for anybody.

So he didn’t. He stood tall against the darkness, arrogant and pigheaded, and it devoured him. One day he was there, and the next he wasn’t. Just gone without a trace. Left behind a house full of kids, a crippling amount of debt, and a horrible reputation that was stained into each and every Milkovich.

It was the kind of shit that would scare anybody straight, and at the age of 17, Mickey had started to believe in the boogeyman for the first time.

*

He stays at the office later than nearly everyone that night. He gets ahead on paperwork, on replying to some emails, and he plays a few games of solitaire. Cory texts him 7 times and calls twice, and by the second call, Mickey knows he can’t put off going home anymore. There’s staying late and blaming it on work, which he can still get away with, and then there’s actively avoiding. If he’s not home soon, he’s just going to make this whole situation shittier than it already is.

The night janitor is mopping the front lobby as he leaves, completely oblivious to Mickey’s presence as he heads out of the building. Mickey pauses outside and heavily considers walking the entire way home, claim that something was wrong with the trains, and then wishes he could kick his own ass for being such a pussy and heads for the L.

As Mickey turns the corner, a car that is way too nice to be in the area is pulling up to idle at the curb, and Mickey spares it a suspicious glance before he keeps walking.

It’s too hard to say if things would be different if he’d stopped to look in interest, or if he’d gone home earlier, or if Cory wasn’t waiting to bitch him out back at the apartment. Mickey is pretty sure, as the black bag comes down over his head and he’s dragged quickly backwards, that this would have happened no matter how the day had gone.

Because that’s just his fucking luck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [read, reblog, & like on tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/116002984560/the-tide-will-pull-you-out)


	3. Blood in the Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the fuck is the point of an empty fish tank?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I'm shit at posting schedules, and I'm sorry. my life is all over the place, and finding time to write (and _concentrate_ on writing) comes little by little. I'm trying to make more time for it, though, promise!
> 
> there's discussion of drug running in this chapter, and I just want to clarify that I know absolutely nothing about how this is done so I'm kind of just. pulling it out of my ass at this point. whoops.

No one speaks to Mickey, and while Mickey certainly has things to say, he’s smarter than to open his mouth in a situation like this. Not that he could say anything, anyway, because there’s a fucking cloth bag over his head. A completely _unnecessary_ cloth bag, because it’s no secret who took him or where he’s going. The only thing Mickey can’t figure out is how Benjamin Thomas found him, and why he needs him.

The stories of where Benjamin Thomas came from, and how he came into power, come by the dozens. None of them are the same, and they are all simultaneously awe-inducing and horrific. The only thing that’s consistent, the only thing that is probably true, is that it was a gradual rise over time, something that happened in small, unidentifiable increments until one day, they were all under Thomas’s thumb. People can claim it happened overnight all they like, but Thomas was stitched into every facet of their lives long before he came out of the shadows and revealed himself.

He uses people to do his dirty work, putting as many pawns between him and actual criminal activity as he can string together, so _why_ he needs Mickey becomes less important. He’s just another person capable of taking the fall, just another person that can dirty his hands and reputation at the expense of keeping Thomas’s empire afloat.

Even the how, while concerning as fuck, isn’t exactly a mystery. Thomas probably knows the social security number for every fucking person in the Chicago area, and then some, and it’s very likely that Mickey’s information was pulled in some kind of fucked up, Hunger Games style lottery.

In fact, Mickey would prefer that. Would prefer just being some poor unfortunate soul than for Thomas to have some kind of _reason_ for abducting Mickey from the streets.

The car jerks to a stop so suddenly that Mickey pitches forward, covered head connecting with the back of a car seat. His, “Mother _fucker_ ,” is heavily muffled by the fabric.

Everything after that, from keys being pulled to the ignition to car doors being opened, is all sound, until he’s being grabbed roughly by the arm and manhandled from the car. His natural instinct is to fight it, to lash out with his legs and his elbows and his _head_ , if he has to, but he keeps his body still. Even if he could blindly fight his way from a couple of goons, it wouldn’t end there. Thomas would just come after him again, only that drive would probably end a lot differently.

There’s at least one guy, if the grip on Mickey’s upper arm is anything to go by, and he’s pulled along so ferociously and quickly that his feet are tripping and sliding over multiple different surfaces—gravel, maybe, and stairs? He certainly feels like he hits his ankle against the edge of a stone step. Then he’s inside again, stopping long enough for the bag to be yanked off his head and for the sudden brightness to leave spots in his eyes.

He thinks maybe he glances some sort of grand foyer before he’s being jerked to the side by some ridiculously butch henchman.

 _I could take him_ , Mickey thinks, rebelliously, except the guy has a Glock resting at his hip and Mickey’s not a fucking idiot. Then again, he’d be lucky if trying to run now just ended with some bullet holes in his body.

When he’s finally shoved through a door, it’s into a long, narrow room that’s hardly wider than a hallway. There’s another door at the other end, the way lit by three incredibly dim wall sconces and… Well, what Mickey assumes is a giant fish tank of some sort.

Without any sort of further instructions, the goon locks the door at Mickey’s back and leaves him alone with the actually pretty fucking creepy aquarium and a couple of chairs. Mickey flips off the closed door (because he can), and then looks around the room, mouth pressed into a line. The fuck is he supposed to do now?

The logical answer would be to go through the door at the other end, but when he tries it, it’s locked, too. If he felt like it, he could probably force himself through either door with enough persistence, but, again, he’s not a fucking idiot, so he stands around with his hands in his back pockets and wonders if this is supposed to be some kind of mental torture bullshit.

He looks again at the glass that’s keeping him from what is probably an olympic swimming pool’s amount of water, considering Mickey can’t even see the other side of the tank. As far as he can tell, it’s empty, aside from sand and rocks and plants and shit. But there’s not a single fish.

What the fuck is the point of an empty fish tank?

Mickey finds himself walking towards it, eyes searching the backlit blue water for movement (still nothing). The glass is cold when he presses his palm against it, and he feels like a fucking weirdo, staring into what is clearly just a tank of water, but it’s not like there’s anything else in the room to distract his attention, and, as much as Mickey hates admitting it to himself, he needs some fucking distraction. Because if he doesn’t have any, he’ll have to think about the situation he’s currently in, and what it means for the life he’s MacGyvered together for himself out of the shit he was involved in when he was younger.

The panic comes quickly, and violently, and Mickey presses his forehead to the glass and closes his eyes, and feels a weird sort of calm wash over him. He breathes, in and out, and when he opens his eyes again, all he sees is that eerie, glowing blue.

He’s drawn away from it when the second door finally opens, revealing a sharply dressed woman who stares at him coldly and says, “Come with me,” in a clipped voice weighed with a heavy Russian accent.

*

She walks quickly, several feet in front of him, and is just as silent as the rest of the people in Thomas’s employ. Mickey’s beginning to wonder if the man himself will actually speak or if Mickey’s expected to read minds.

They’ve been walking for several minutes down various hallways when she finally speaks again.

“You are Mickey Milkovich, yes?” She asks, not even turning to look at him. “Son of Terry Milkovich?”

Mickey nearly trips in his surprise, but composes himself, keeping his face neutral even as his blood runs cold.

He convinces himself that they just know who his parents are. They probably know about his entire family, the way they know about everyone’s entire family. It’s a scare tactic, but not in the way Mickey instantly perceives it.

They’re not trying to finish what they started.

Still, he doesn’t answer.

“You work at Ann Harvey Magazine Subscription Services, yes?”

Mickey’s tempted to retort with a witty comment about how that’s where they basically picked him up, so _yes_ , he fucking works there, but he crosses his arms and stays silent.

“You live with boyfriend, Cory Klemmons? He is paralegal at Michaels & Hanson?”

Mickey’s heart rate picks up, and again, his mouth stays shut. After all, this isn’t verifying that the information they have is correct—this is her letting Mickey know exactly how much information they have.

His arms prickle with goosebumps, and he blames it on how cold Thomas likes to keep his fucking mansion.

*

Mickey is pretty sure he’s walked in circles, because there’s no fucking way this place is this big. When they finally push through another door, it’s into a wood paneled dining room that is dominated by the longest table Mickey has ever seen. It’s surrounded by at least two dozen chairs, and, seated in the one farthest from them, is Benjamin Thomas himself.

He doesn’t look up when they enter, doesn’t acknowledge their presence in any way, in fact. He sits there, casually eating his dinner, like he was any ordinary Joe and Mickey suddenly didn’t have his life in the guy’s hands.

The Russian woman who led him there says nothing now, blocking the doorway they came through with her slim body, and, given no further instruction, Mickey walks towards the table. With enough chairs to seat his entire fucking extended family, Mickey can only guess that he’s expected to sit down, and probably somewhere specific, too.

The urge to sit as far away from Thomas is incredibly prominent, but he forces it down and pushes himself forward. Even when looking the grim reaper in the face, he’s not going to act like a little chicken shit.

He settles on a chair towards the center, and doesn’t realize how grateful he is for the chair until he’s sitting in it. If Mickey wasn’t so used to forcing his fear far inside himself, his knees would probably be knocking together.

“Smart boy,” Thomas says without looking up, cutting another chunk off his steak and plopping it into his mouth. For the first time, Mickey notices the Beretta sitting next to the guy’s fucking salad fork (or some shit).

When Mickey had imagined Benjamin Thomas, he’d always pictured some ageless mobster, with sleek features, and a sleek black suit, and sleek black hair, all tied together with the face of a demon. Like a figment of his imagination more than a real person.

But now, up close and personal, Mickey can see that the man is at least old enough to be his father. His face looks like any other kindly older man, the hair that he has grey although he’s very clearly balding, and while his suit is sleek and fashionable, the tie around his throat is a brilliant purple in color.

“Your father was smart, too,” Thomas continues, still paying more attention to his dinner than to Mickey, and Mickey grips the fabric of his pants but otherwise remains still. “Had a head for this business, and, more importantly, the stomach. You Milkoviches must be made of some pretty tough stuff.”

Mickey feels sick, suddenly. Sure, there’s no love lost between him and his old man, but that doesn’t mean his skin doesn’t crawl with the way Thomas talks about him like they’re good buddies. Like he’s not responsible for Terry’s disappearance. For his death. Because Mickey’s not delusional enough to believe that his dad just ran out on him, like everyone always said. That he’s alive out there somewhere.

 _Not a fucking idiot_.

“You used to work with him, right?” Thomas finally looks up and meets Mickey’s eyes, and Mickey’s not sure what to do, knows that the jobs his dad did is exactly what put him on Thomas’s radar to begin with. But, again, Mickey is sure it’s a question that everyone in the room already knows the answer to.

He gives a sharp nod.

“Good, good.” Thomas nods himself, several times. “Then what I have in mind for you should be a piece of cake, given the kind of jobs he used to pull.”

The next thing Mickey knows, the Russian woman is standing behind his chair, fingers curling over the back, and Mickey has to stop his body from physically reacting to the shock.

Prey should never show weakness in front of what hunts them.

“You have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow,” Thomas informs Mickey. “You’ll need to take a half-day from work, say around noon? A car will be waiting for you.”

And with that, Thomas gives a dismissive wave of his hand, and Mickey’s chair is being pulled out.

“Svetlana will see you out.”

Svetlana, who must be the Russian woman, grabs him around the elbow and tugs him up, and then they’re leaving Benjamin Thomas to his dinner.

As much as Mickey’s pulse is rushing, he can’t help but feel like it’s partly due to anger. It took, what, two fucking hours for _that_ to take place? Thomas must like his fucking mind games. That, or he’s a fan of dangling his wealth and power in front of everyone’s face.

(Probably both, though.)

There’s no more intimidation or blackmail tactics as Mickey is led on a much shorter path back to that grand foyer he initially glimpsed. He’s not told not to leave town, not to run, not to tell the police, because all of those things would be futile. There’s no getting out of this. There’s no running away.

Mickey doesn’t pass back through the weird fish tank room, and Svetlana leads him all the way to the same black sedan he was abducted in. As he’s allowed to climb in of his own free will, she says, “See you tomorrow,” and the smile she gives him reminds him of a shark.

*

“Where the _fuck_ have you _been?!_ ”

Mickey keeps his face to the door as he closes it, taking his time to twist the deadbolt and slide the chain into place. It’s too long for Cory, though, because he’s got Mickey by the shoulder and angrily turning him around before Mickey’s fingers break contact with the metal.

“No calls, no texts. I would have settled for fucking morse code! I called and texted a dozen times, and when I called your office, I got that stupid automated voicemail thing!” Cory looks every part the worried housewife, already in his pajamas, his arms crossed, his hair sticking up in every direction. All he’s really missing is the bathrobe. “Well?!” Cory shrieks, throwing out his arms in exasperation that Mickey has yet to say anything.

Mickey is sure it’s about to get worse—fuck, he kind of wants it to. He wants an excuse to yell, to scream, to even throw each other around, work out the physical aggression thrumming through his body.

But then Cory’s face crumples, and he plants his hand on Mickey’s arm, fingers stroking over the fabric there.

“I-I thought something _happened_.” Cory’s voice breaks, and he shakes his head a few times. “I thought you were hurt, or dead, or… Or I don’t know!” He looks desperately at Mickey. “I have a very vivid imagination, you know that.”

It makes Mickey smile, just a little bit, and for a second, he considers telling Cory everything. Cory knows the shit that Mickey’s been through. He knows the man that Mickey _was_ and has worked so hard to get away from. What’s all that shit about not shouldering burdens on your own? Maybe with Cory beside him, Mickey might actually be able to… Well, not find a way out of this, but at least _survive_ it.

But then he remembers the way Svetlana had listed all of his personal information. The way Thomas had so casually mentioned Mickey’s father. There are invisible lines on every side of him now, and Mickey’s not sure what will happen when he crosses one.

He cups Cory’s face in his hand, strokes a thumb across his cheek, and resolves that Cory can never know. He’s in danger enough already—Mickey’s not about to make it worse.

“I got held up at work.” His voice comes out normally enough, but, then again, he’s always been a good liar. “Uh, one of the supervisors is retiring, and Mark said they were considering me for the position, were gonna keep an eye on my numbers and shit, so—”

“Really?” Cory’s eyes widen, the worry instantly replaced with surprise and excitement. “That’s so great, Mickey! Oh my god, that’s so—I’m so happy for you!” Cory grins, and then smacks Mickey hard on the arm. “But I’m still mad at you. You couldn’t fucking call me? I was one nail bite away from starting to check in with hospitals to see if someone matching your description had shown up. Seriously. There wasn’t time to text?”

If Mickey wasn’t used to sticking to his guns even under the highest pressures, maybe the searching look that Cory is giving him would make him cave.

“I just… Knew you were pissed at me, already. And look, I’m sorry for last night, alright? I have shit days and take them out on you. I guess I just needed the time to clear my head, get my shit together.” Mickey glances away, tugging his hand through his hair, and then Cory grabs it.

“I’m sorry, too,” Cory mumbles. “I know how much you hate Thai food.” He tugs on Mickey’s hand gently. “But I ordered pizza, and I hardly touched it since I was worrying so much.” He glares hard at Mickey, letting him know that he’s still not off the hook for the whole thing, and Mickey let’s himself be led into the kitchen, even if food is the absolute last thing he wants anything to do with right now.

As Cory’s worry settles and he starts to chatter about his day and the fake promotion Mickey might get, Mickey watches him and knows he should end it. That he should get Cory as far away from him, and as far away from Thomas’s shadow, as possible. That the longer Mickey let’s this drag on, the more danger Cory will be in. He’ll be used as blackmail, as collateral, as the leash around Mickey’s neck to keep him from doing anything that Thomas does not approve of.

But instead he reaches across their tiny ass table and grabs Cory’s hand, squeezing it once and getting one back in return, Cory stopping mid sentence to smile at him. Mickey forces himself to eat an entire slice of pizza, even though his stomach is leaden with guilt.

*

Mickey sleeps restlessly, plagued with nightmares that are all viewed through an eerie blue glow. When light finally starts to slate into their bedroom, he gives up any pretense of sleeping, careful not to wake Cory as he slips out of bed far earlier than he’s ever voluntarily woken up.

He let’s himself take an especially long shower that morning, secure in the fact that his boyfriend is not nearly as sensitive to their shitty plumbing as Mickey is. Mickey’s never been a believer that showers can somehow wash away stress and problems and all the bad shit going on in life, but for a second, he let’s himself. He let’s himself believe that when he gets out of the shower, his life will be the same way it was 48 hours ago. Mundane and routine and suffocating, but still better than what it is now.

When Cory wakes up and rushes out of their bedroom in a panic, it’s to find Mickey seated in the kitchen, fully dressed for work and nursing a cup of coffee. It’s Mickey’s third, but Cory doesn’t really need to know that.

“You’re up early,” Cory says in a sleep heavy voice. He pets at his hair with his hands, rubs at his eyes, yawns, and it’s like his exhaustion settles heavy on Mickey’s shoulders, making his own fatigue that much more apparent. “I thought for a minute I dreamed you coming home last night.” He gives a tired little laugh, and Mickey sips his coffee.

“Nope.” Mickey’s entire chest cavity still feels heavy with yesterday’s events—he can’t even _look_ at Cory.

“…is everything all right?” Cory walks over, setting his hands on Mickey’s shoulders and rubbing them a bit. Mickey doesn’t know how the touch can possibly be soothing with all the shit going on, but he relaxes into it despite everything.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Mickey pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing at his stinging, tired eyes. It’s the truth, after all.

“Nervous?” Cory concludes, and Mickey is glad that Cory is behind him and can’t see the quizzical expression on his face. “They’re going to give that position to you, Mickey. No need to stress over it.”

Oh. Right. The fake promotion thing.

He just nods several times in succession, and then Cory is planting a kiss to the back of his neck and slipping away.

“Okay, time for me to get in the shower,” he announces, stretching his arms above his head and he starts back towards the bedroom.

“Uh, hey, Cor?” Mickey looks at his boyfriend over the edge of his **I ❤ CHICAGO** mug. “I might stay late at the office again tonight—not as late, but just, you know, long enough to finish catching up on anything I’m behind on, making it all fucking presentable—”

“Mickey, it’s _fine_. But I understand the need for perfection when something you want is on the line.” Cory gazes at him softly. “Do what you need to do, but I know you’re going to be great, either way.” With that, he turns around again, only pausing briefly in the doorway to say, “Thanks for telling me this time,” before he’s gone.

Mickey can hear the pipes again as the shower starts, and he drains the rest of his now lukewarm coffee. He stares at the bottom of the mug, and then decides to pour himself another one.

*

He wonders why he even goes into work that day. If there was a promotion on the line, he would definitely not be getting it. All day, he’s distracted, eyes glazing over every time a possible contract goes on talking for too long on the other end of the line, mind going blank between every call. He glances at the clock every five minutes, hands flexing around the edge of his desk, and he wishes Thomas hadn’t fucking made it a midday thing. If he’s going to destroy Mickey’s life, he might as well get it over with. Mickey is not down for this fucking anticipation shit.

The worst part is that, once again, Mickey can’t stop thinking about Nathan the mailroom guy. His involvement with Thomas had been too obvious, too known—Mickey wonders if that’s what led to his abrupt disappearance.

But, more than anything, it makes Mickey even more wary of all his coworkers. How many of them are really under Thomas’s thumb? Are they just like Mickey, forcefully coerced into the position, or had they volunteered themselves willingly? And if that’s the case, are they now acting as Thomas’s eyes and ears? Are they making sure that Mickey knows his place? That he doesn’t try to run? That he doesn’t do anything that breaks the fucking unspoken rules?

He makes eye contact with Howard, and looks away so quickly his neck hurts.

The second lunch hits, he’s up and heading towards the elevator before anyone else has even gathered their things. Fuck telling anyone he’s taking a half day—like they’d fucking notice he was gone, anyway.

*

There’s no black bag to greet him this time, but the driver is still icily silent. Mickey doesn’t even try to distract himself by looking out the window—just stares at his hands, and at the stark black letters that probably sealed his fate long, long ago.

Mickey snorts, and the driver glances at him in the rearview mirror with annoyance. Who is Mickey kidding? He’s been doomed since the second he was Terry Milkovich’s son.

The goon doesn’t manhandle him this time, but he does stay close by, gun threateningly visible, as he shows Mickey into the weird aquarium room again. It must be Thomas’s official waiting room. The place he likes to make all of his heavily blackmailed employees sweat. As Mickey glances around the space, he can’t help but wonder what about it is supposed to make it intimidating. After all, Thomas can’t seem to breathe without it somehow making another person quiver with fear.

Nothing else to steal his attention, Mickey heads for the empty fish tank again. Now that he’s looking at the backlit water again, he realizes that it’s the same color that had been shrouding his nightmares like a pair of tinted sunglasses. He let’s his forehead thunk against the glass in annoyance.

Better than Thomas’s face, he supposes.

He breathes deeply, closing his eyes, and maybe it’s the quiet of the room or the coolness of the glass against his skin, but Mickey feels calmer than he has since the whole fucking ordeal started. Of course, as soon as that happens, the second door is opening.

“Come,” Svetlana says in a clipped tone that Mickey is beginning to think is just fucking _standard_ for her, and he reluctantly opens his eyes, remembering how fucking tired it is. It must be that, more than anything, that makes him think he sees movement in the water. He squints into the depths, but before he has a chance to really look closer, Svetlana is barking, “Now!” and Mickey’s attention is snapped away.

As Svetlana leads him to… Wherever it is he’s going that day, he hopes it’s not nearly as roundabout as yesterday’s trip had been. It almost makes Mickey wish he’d paid attention the day before, so that he might recognize which hallway they’re in or a fucking painting or something. But, as it is, he just has to follow the Russian woman blindly.

The blue glow is still weirdly present in Mickey’s mind as he walks, like it’s less of just a fucking light trick and more of, well, Mickey’s not exactly sure. A feeling? That sounds fucking lame even just _thinking_ it.

“So what’s the fucking deal with the empty aquarium?” Mickey eventually asks, trying not to sound like he’s all that curious about it. Maybe that’s the game here—put people in a room with an empty tank and see how long it takes to make them fucking batty. There’s a slight stutter in Svetlana’s steps, something Mickey only notices because her heels make a rather significant _clack clack clack_ noise against the hardwood. “Is it some kind of weird, simulated ocean swimming pool? Thomas have an exhibition kink or some shit?”

Svetlana let’s out a huff of amusement, and then glances behind her with a dangerous curl at the corner of her smile and her eyebrow cocked. “No,” she responds simply. “Is Thomas’s most treasured possession.” And then she’s back to walking again, quick paced and efficient, leaving Mickey to walk as fast as he can without actually running to close the sudden distance between them.

Thomas’s most prized possession… Is an empty aquarium? _The fuck?_

*

Svetlana doesn’t lead Mickey into another dining room, but rather what would be a conference room if people fucking had conference rooms in their homes. Then again, for someone with a giant ass fish tank, a conference room isn’t that out of the question.

This time, Thomas isn’t alone. He has his head bent close with another man, easily in his 30s at least, and they’re bent over something and talking in hushed whispers until Svetlana clears her throat and draws their attention.

“Good, good,” Thomas mutters, straightening and rolling whatever documents he had been perusing up neatly. Moments later, someone appears to take it from him, and is then gone as quickly as they’d come. “Pat, this is the young man I was telling you about—Terry Milkovich’s boy.”

The other guy—Pat—looks at Mickey, startled, and then breaks out into a grin. “No shit?” At his full height, this dude is alarmingly tall, all limbs, and he closes the distance between himself and Mickey in just a few strides. He holds out his hand.

“Patrick Lowe, but Pat’s fine.”

Mickey stares at the guy’s hand, glances up at him with a skeptical eyebrow—is this guy fucking serious?—before firmly shaking the guy’s hand. He’s not afraid of some lackey, but the introduction had taken him aback. It’s certainly more pomp and circumstance than he’d had with Thomas himself.

“Mickey.” Although it seems stupid to give information that everyone in the room already fucking knows. Patrick just keeps grinning, like their friends just introduced them at a bar and not under the watchful gaze of Chicago’s kingpin.

“Well, all right then, Mickey. Let’s get you briefed.” He leads Mickey over to the table, and since he doesn’t sit down, Mickey doesn’t, either. “Or are you more of a boxers kind of guy?”

Svetlana snorts behind him, the sound more disgusted than amused, and Patrick raises his eyebrows expectantly. Thomas is kidding with this, right? There’s no way this guy’s for real.

“No?” Patrick’s shoulders drop in a theatric sigh. “And here I was thinking maybe Thomas got me someone who’d appreciate my jokes for once.”

“No one appreciates your jokes, Pat,” Thomas responds in amusement, seated not far away. It’s clear to Mickey that he’s there more to oversee everything than to actually participate. Still, even Thomas’s presence makes Mickey feel on edge. He really fucking wishes he had the luxury of excusing himself for a smoke right about now.

The crinkling of paper being spread out on the large table before them draws Mickey’s attention back into the moment. He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but a map of the United States isn’t exactly it.

“Being a Milkovich, Ben here has assured me that you’re no stranger to drug running,” Patrick says, and the use of Thomas’s first name is jarring. Who the fuck _is_ this guy? “We wanted to ease you into this, do something nice and simple to, uh, refresh your memory. You’ve been out of the game for a good while, and while the rules haven’t changed, we do things a _little_ differently here. Don’t like to make messes, after all.”

Patrick taps his finger against Chicago, and then draws a zigzagging line to just inside the Ohio border.

“We’ve got a few borders to cross, but really we’ll just be transport. Like I said, nice and simple. Think of it as a test run, or a try out. Once we can see that you can do this, we can move onto something a little more exciting.”

Mickey wishes he could say that he doesn’t want a test run, or a try out. This is not a part he’s fucking auditioning for, it’s one he _has_ to play. If he fucks it up, they won’t just say, “well, that’s too bad,” and send him packing. Patrick had just said it—they don’t like making messes, and if Mickey doesn’t do this and do it right, he’ll be the mess at the end of it all.

But on top of all that, it verifies a fact that Mickey’s been trying to deny—that he’s in this for the long haul. It’s not like he ever really believed he’d do one job and they’d be done with it. Things are never that fucking easy.

As far as Mickey’s concerned, Thomas owns him now.

*

Going home that night is like walking into a dream. Not because his home life is particularly wonderful, but because it just doesn’t feel _real_ anymore. Like once Mickey steps into his apartment, everything that transpires isn’t _actually_ happening. Or maybe like Mickey is looking down on somebody else’s life, because it doesn’t fucking feel like his own.

Cory is curled up on the couch, watching something at a low volume, and he doesn’t even look over as he asks, “You get everything in order at work?”

There’s a lump in Mickey’s throat, and he rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah,” he answers, keeping his voice as even as possible. “Yeah, I got the promotion in the bag.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [read, reblog, & like on tumbler](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/118393322490/the-tide-will-pull-you-out)


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